Under a sycamore by the churchyard wall at a little distance from the crowd a man stood and listened—­a clergyman in a worn black gown, a man not old in years but with a face prematurely old, and shoulders that already stooped under the burden of life—­John Whitelamb.  He watched between fear and hope to be recognised.  When the preacher mounted the slab, stroked back his hair and, turning his face towards the sycamore, fixed his eyes (as it seemed) upon the figure beneath it, he felt sure he had been recognised:  a moment later he doubted whether that gaze had passed over him in forgetfulness or contempt.

He felt himself worthy of contempt.  They had been too hard for him, these Wesleys.  They had all departed from Epworth, years before, and left him, who had been their brother, alone with his miserable doubts.  No letters, no message of remembered affection or present good will, ever came from them.  He had been unfaithful to his religion:  they had cast him off.  For seven years he had walked and laboured among the men and women here gathered in the midsummer dusk:  but the faces to which he had turned for comfort were faces of the past—­some dead, others far away.

So the preacher’s voice came to him as one rending the sepulchre.  “Son of man, can these bones live?” Yes, the bones of Christ’s warrior beneath the slab—­laid there to rest in utter weariness—­were stirring, putting forth strength and a voice that pierced his living marrow.  Ah, how it penetrated, unlocking old wells of tears!

He listened, letting his tears run.  Only once did he withdraw his eyes, and then for a moment they fell on John Romley, loitering too, on the outskirts of the crowd by the churchyard gate and plainly in two minds about interfering.  Romley was curate of Epworth now, delegate of an absentee sporting rector:  and had in truth set this ball rolling by denying John Wesley his pulpit.  He had miscalculated his flock; this stubborn English breed, so loyal in enmity, loving the memory of a foe who had proved himself a man.  He watched with a loose-lipped sneer; too weak to conquer his own curiosity, far too weak to assert his authority and attempt to clear the churchyard of that “enthusiasm” which he had denounced in his most florid style last Sunday, within the church.

John Whitelamb’s gaze travelled back to the preacher.  Up to this he had heard the voice only, and the dead man in his grave below speaking through that voice.  Now he listened to the words.  If the dead man spoke through them, what a change had death wrought—­what wisdom had he found in the dust that equals all!  What had become of the old confident righteousness, the old pride of intellect?  They were stripped and flung aside as filthy rags.  “Apart from faith we do not count.  We are redeemed:  we are saved.  Christ has made with us no bargain at all except to believe that the bargain is concluded.  What are we at the best that He should make distinctions between us?  We are all sinners and our infinitesimal grades of sin sunk in His magnificent mercy.  Only acknowledge your sin:  only admit the mercy; and you are healed, pardoned, made joint heirs with Christ—­not in a fair way to be healed, not going to be pardoned in some future state; but healed, pardoned, your sins washed away in Christ’s blood, actually, here and now.”